


The Case of the Obnoxious American

by sabby1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s), Post-Reichenbach, Spoilers for Sherlock s03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabby1/pseuds/sabby1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if after the Fall, someone pointed out to John a couple things that he might have missed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Obnoxious American

_“Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be...dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this...”_

  


The doorbell to 221b Baker Street buzzes loudly, disturbing the perfect quiet of the upstairs apartment. 

John ignores it as he finishes his drink and places the glass back on the side table without looking. He stares intently out the window into the gray skies of a perfectly dreary Wednesday morning in London. 

The doorbell buzzes insistently, changing rhythm and speed until finally the front door opens and Mrs. Hudson's familiar voice echoes up the stairwell. “There's no need to be so rude! Dr. Watson does not take visitors today.”

“I'm not here for a social call, I'm here on business. Now, step aside, please.” A distinctly American female voice brushes off Mrs. Hudson's sputtered protests as heavy steps clomp up the stairs, making the fourth one from the bottom creak loudly.

John gets up from his chair just as the woman steps through the perpetually unlocked door into the living room, followed closely at the heels by a red-faced Mrs. Hudson. 

“John, dear, I'm so sorry, I tried to stop her, but this person just won't listen. Do you want me to call the police?” 

“It's alright, Mrs. Hudson,” John says as he looks at the young woman in her practical wool coat and leather gloves and flat-soled leather boots. “She won't stay long.”

“If you say so, dear.” Mrs. Hudson gives the stranger one last reproachful look before she walks back out, closing the door behind her. 

“Dr. John Watson.” The woman raises her chin as she takes off her gloves and folds them together in one hand. “My name is Annie Peters. I came here to see Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Sherlock?” John laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “Sorry, I'm afraid you're a bit too late. He buggered off a couple weeks ago.” 

“I'm sorry to hear that. When do you expect him ...” She trails off as her eyes narrow. Her gaze takes rapid inventory of the room, moving over the cabinets and dining table in the kitchen to the mantel of the fireplace, to the side table next to John's chair, to the sofa and coffee table. They quickly travel down John's body, taking in his shirt, pants, socks and shoes until, finally, her gaze returns to his face and hair. “Oh, no.”

“Problem?” John asks sarcastically as he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at her with feigned interest. 

“I'd say so.” She takes a deep breath and exhales it in an exasperated huff. “It's barely ten in the morning yet there is a nearly empty bottle of cheap liquor next to a glass with half-melted ice cubes on the side table by the chair you vacated when I entered. The visible ring of condensation slightly in front of the bottom of the glass suggests that it was recently picked up and placed back down.” She flaps her gloves in the direction of the glass, then motions towards the rest of the apartment as she rattles off her observations in a matter-of-fact tone.“Taking into account the all over state of the apartment and the lack of other alcoholic beverages throughout the main living space and kitchen, you are not likely a habitual drinker. The most popular reasons for non-habitual drinking are celebration, seduction or bereavement. The fact that you were alone prior to my arrival, and your morose attitude, allow me to rule out celebration. The top two buttons of your shirt are undone exposing the grime on the inside of the collar. That as well as the excessive wrinkles in the material and the untreated stain of dried mustard on the shirt pocket suggest that you have been wearing this shirt at least since yesterday, ruling out seduction.”

John's eyes fly to his shirt and he instinctively covers the stain with his hand before he realizes what he's doing and uncomfortably drops his hand to his side with a dumbfounded look on his face. 

Annie continues her narrative undisturbed but in an increasingly annoyed tone. “This leaves bereavement as the most likely cause of your imbibing alcohol this early in the day. One could assume that the nature of your bereavement is a bad break-up with a lover, but the odor of spoiled meat and rotten garbage emanating from under the sink in the kitchen suggests that the trash has not been removed in over a week.” She pauses to sniff the air a couple of times. “Possibly two, which suggests a much deeper impact on your day-to-day life and therefore a greater and more permanent loss than the end of a sexual relationship, most likely the death of a loved one.”

Her face scrunches up in distaste at the look on John's face. “There are several pictures on the mantel lying face down, while others, depicting you and your family, remain upright. Given that your landlady, Mrs. Hudson, is alive and well, and reinterpreting your earlier cryptic statement in regards to Mr. Holmes' absence with the above facts taken into consideration, there is only one probable conclusion. You are grieving the death of your very dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” 

“My god, you're just like him.” John has to hold on to the back of the chair to stay upright as his legs turn to jelly. 

Annie is oblivious to his shock. “Sherlock Holmes is dead.” She sinks down into the sofa, her brows deeply furrowed with a put upon frown. “How inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient?” John scoffs incredulously as he sinks heavily into the chair. “Do you have no concept of tact? A normal person would offer me their condolences.” His expression is torn between disbelief, outrage and the pain of utter familiarity with this type of conversation. 

She looks up at him with a patronizing scowl. “My condolences would neither change the fact that he's dead nor do anything to alleviate the emotional hardship you are currently suffering. Therefore, they would be a waste of time and I don't like wasting time.” 

A sad smile twitches at John's lips and he picks up the bottle to refill his glass. “I'm afraid you did anyway.” He sighs as he picks up his glass. “Why were you looking for Sherlock, anyway?” 

Annie snaps the gloves against her palm with an aggravated pout. “I wanted to consult with him on a case.” She huffs out a breath and cocks her head to the side. “What happened?” 

John snorts as he takes a healthy swig of cheap scotch. “Are you saying you can't tell from the way I'm holding my glass? Or deduce what happened from the dirt on my shoes?” 

Annie's gaze immediately flies to his shoes but then she lowers her chin to hide a smile before she looks back up with a sharp glint in her intelligent eyes. “If I could, I wouldn't have come here to ask for Mr. Holmes' assistance. I'm just an ordinary girl, working with the tools of a genius.” She sighs. “So why don't you tell me what happened?”

“Why don't you sod off and read about it in the newspapers like everyone else?” John haphazardly slams his glass back down on the side table, creating another wet ring. “It’s all over the bloody internet too!”

“And if I do that, am I going to learn the truth about what happened?” she asks calmly.

“Nobody wants to hear the truth.” John's expression is mulish and his words are slightly slurred. 

“Well, I'd like to hear it. So if the newspapers aren't going to be able to give me the whole story, then I'd rather hear it from you.” She gets up from the sofa and takes off her coat, folding it neatly before she places it across the backrest and drops her gloves on top. “How about some tea? You British people always drink tea in this kind of situation, right?” Without waiting for a response, she walks towards the kitchen. 

John looks after her with an incredulous expression on his face, dumbly shaking his head as he watches her look at each single closed cabinet in the kitchen before she opens the one that holds both the mugs and the tin with tea leaves in it on the first try. 

***

Two hours later, John concludes his story of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson over the umpteenth cup of tea spiked with the last of the scotch from the bottle. 

Annie has listened attentively the whole time, her expression free of compassion and entirely unburdened by emotional investment, only interrupting him to ask one or the other analytical question or clarify a particular detail. 

And John has willingly divulged more intimate details than even his therapist had ever been privy to. He was able to move past the lump in his throat and dragged up the best and the worst moments, describing the last few minutes of their friendship that plagued his mind every minute of every day. “And then he did it.” 

“Hang on!” Annie interrupts him with one finger in the air as if to push the pause button. “Don't gloss over details now, Dr. Watson. What exactly did he say before he jumped?”

John turns his face as if he's been slapped. “He told me that he was a fake and to let everyone know...”

Annie shakes her head, waving her hand impatiently. “No, the other thing.”

“What other thing?” John blinks rapidly in confusion. 

Annie growls under her breath, her hand still waving impatiently at the air. “What you just said about where you were.” 

“Oh.” John cocks his head to the side. His hands shake as he picks up the cup of tea once more. “He told me not to come closer.” He tries to drink from it and notices that it's empty, but he keeps a hold of it anyhow, forcing his hands to stay still. “He told me to stay where I was and to watch him. To keep my eyes fixed on him.” John takes a shaky breath. “And then he jumped,” he says as quickly as he can, wiping at his eyes as he looks anywhere but at Annie's face. 

“Interesting,” Annie says quietly to herself before she looks back up at John with a sharp glint in her eyes. “And where exactly did all this take place?”

“Bart's Hospital. On the rooftop.”

Annie gets up at speed, grabbing her coat and gloves in one swift motion. “The address, Dr. Watson. What's the address? And get your jacket, you're coming with me.” 

John's whole body jolts in surprise. “Beg pardon?” 

“I want to see the scene of the incident.” She swings her coat around her shoulders. “And I want you to show it to me. Now.” 

John slowly gets up from his chair, but he is shaking his head, not making a move to get his jacket. “I don't think...”

Annie, already at the door, whirls around sharply to fix him with a forbidding glare. “You are wasting time, Dr. Watson. Quit stalling and get with it, there is a case to solve.” 

***

The rooftop of St. Bartholomew Hospital is bare and clean, safe for a darkened patch on the ground, presumably where Moriarty's blood had been cleaned off the light gray concrete.

John barely looks around, keeping his eyes glued to the back of Annie's coat as he hovers near the back of the pitched stairwell exit. 

Annie paces the length and width of the space, taking note of the placement and height of the ledges and the fire-escape down to the alley on the left side of the the building. She jogs quickly up to the front and hops up onto the ledge.

“No, stop!” John involuntarily stumbles forward, one hand uselessly reaching out towards Annie. 

Annie reaches a hand back towards him without turning around. “Don't worry, Dr. Watson. I'm not going to jump.” Despite her words, she leans slightly towards the precipice, looking down the several stories to the sidewalk in front of the building. 

Her eyes move over the three benches in front of the building, the bus stop, the peculiar pavement markings next to it, the bus lane and the phone booth at the corner. Next they move to the extended single story brick building of the ambulance station dividing the large space into two one way streets, creating somewhat of a roundabout. 

“Would you please come down from there?” John's voice is firm and he's beckoning her with his outstretched hand, inching closer without quite looking at her. 

“Actually, I'd like you to come up here for a second,” Annie says, turning around just long enough to crook her fingers at John. 

“Why?” John stops, frowning, then shakes his head. “No, I'm not climbing up there. I'm not.” 

Annie rolls her eyes. “Don't be childish, Dr. Watson. Come up here and show me where you stood while you were talking to Mr. Holmes.” 

John steps closer with an angry scowl on his face and crosses his arms defiantly. “What does it matter?” 

“Humor me, Dr. Watson. Where were you while Sherlock Holmes stood on this very ledge?” 

John glares at Annie, his arms still tightly crossed as he takes the last couple steps towards the ledge. He deliberately does not step up onto it, instead leaning slightly to look at the ground four stories below them. “Right about there.” He hastily moves one hand to point at a spot just at the corner of the bright yellow “Ambulances Only” markings on the ground in front of the station. 

“Hm.” Annie whirls around and jumps back onto the rooftop with a contemplative expression. “Tell me again exactly what transpired. From the time you stepped out of the taxi. Every step you took, every word he said.” 

“What? No!” All color drains from John's face as he shakes his head vehemently. “I can't...I don't even remember.” 

“Bullshit!” She steps right into his personal space, pinning him down with her gaze as she speaks rapidly. “He was your best friend, closer than family, and he killed himself in front of you while you were on the phone with him, looking directly at him. And you did nothing to stop it.” She grabs his shoulders and smirks cruelly. “I bet you remember every single word, every inflection because you keep reliving it, over and over in your mind, trying to figure out what you could have done different to stop him from jumping.” She gives his shoulders a firm shake. “Now, tell me.” 

John gasps, breathing shallowly as he stares at Annie with wide eyes, arms locked in front of his chest as his eyes flick back and forth rapidly. “I...he...the cabby...”

“Focus, Dr. Watson!” Annie shakes him again.

“The cabby pulled up at the curb right over there.” The words start spilling from John's mouth without effort as he indicates the spot he's talking about. “My phone started ringing before I even got out. I picked it up and said hello. Sherlock called my name. He sounded desolate. I started to walk around the ambulance building and he said 'Turn around and walk back the way you came.' I told him I was coming in and he shouted at me, 'Just do as I ask, please!'; he begged me. Sherlock never begs. So I walked back, I even asked him where to. He said 'Stop there.' when I got to that spot.” John motions towards the same spot he pointed out before. “Then he said 'Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop.' and I looked up and there he was. Phone in hand, coat flapping in the wind like some vigilante superhero.” John brakes off on a sob, shaking his head. 

Annie's eyes narrow as she lets go of his shoulders. “Go on.” 

“He was stuttering. He said 'I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this.'.” John's hands shake and his lips are quivering between words as he recounts the conversation. “He said it was an apology. And then he started on this grand speech about how 'It's all true, everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty. I'm a fake.' He was trying so hard to sound convincing but he was choking back tears. 'The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes.'.” John looks up sharply pinning Annie with his gaze. “But it's all bullshit. He didn't create Moriarty, he didn't make anything up, and he was not a fraud. Never a fraud.” He points his finger angrily at her chest. 

Annie nods silently and gives him time to collect himself without saying anything. 

John finally pulls his hand back and wipes it over his mouth as if to wipe off the awful words. “He claimed he'd researched me. 'Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick,' he said. 'It's just a magic trick'.” John scoffs. “I'd had enough, and I tried. I tried to get to him but he told me 'Stay exactly where you are. Don't move.' before I could even get to the corner of the building. So like an idiot, I listened and I stayed and when he begged me 'Keep your eyes fixed on me.' I did that too.” John swallows back a sob and wipes away the moisture in his eyes. “There is nothing I wouldn't have done for him.” He takes a deep breath and crosses his arms tightly in front of his chest. “He said that the phone call was his note. Because 'That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note'. And I still didn't connect the dots. I didn't want to, I refused to connect the dots until he said 'Goodbye, John.' and then I was still in denial, as if saying 'No don't.' was going to stop him. As if screaming his name would prevent him from spreading his arms and diving over the ledge like some sacrificial lamb.” 

“Interesting choice of words,”Annie mutters to herself as she crosses her arms loosely and brings one hand up to tap her chin with the side of her index finger. “What happened next?” 

“I started running to get to him, but I barreled right into a guy on a bicycle and went down hard.” John frowns deeply as he recalls the last moments he spent in the company of his best friend. “Everything happened so quickly. By the time I got back on my feet there was a whole crowd around him. My ears were ringing and my vision was blurry. So much blood around his head. He was on his side and another doctor was hovering over him. I barely managed to get a hold of his wrist to take his pulse. Nothing. The next moment they dragged me off and the ambulance came and took him away.” 

“Is that so?” Annie drops her hand with a contemplative frown. “How quickly would you say the ambulance arrived at the scene?” 

John blinks, pulled out of his revery at the incongruous question. “What's it matter? He was dead.” 

Annie drops her chin with a reproachful look. “Dr. Watson. How long?” 

“About a minute, maybe even less.” 

“Ah.” Annie nods curtly and suddenly bursts into motion. “Did you follow them into the hospital?” She looks him over even as she steps around him to get to the stairwell. “Of course you didn't. I bet you didn't see him again once they wheeled him away.” She takes a deep breath and opens the door. “Is there an easy way to get access to the coroner's report?” 

John follows her at a more sedate pace, still reeling from having to recount the worst moment of his life once again in horrifying detail. “Molly.” 

Annie raises a brow in scientific interest. “A friend of yours?” 

John nods and follows Annie down the stairs back into the building. “Molly Hooper. She works here at the morgue.” 

Annie's mouth drops open before it forms into a smile. “I see.” She shakes her head and speeds up her steps down the stairs. 

***

The morgue at Bart's is as cold and unwelcoming as any morgue would be. The only difference is that this morgue has a state of the art pathology lab right next to it and no security cameras beyond its entrance. 

“Molly Hooper,” Annie says authoritatively, watching with a sadistic smile as the mousy brunette at the microscope jumps about a foot in the air. “Annie Peters, pleased to meet you.” 

Molly shakes Annie's hand, but looks around her at John with a questioning stare. Off of his apologetic shrug, she echoes a lame, “Pleased to meet you.” 

Annie flashes a Cheshire grin as she keeps a hold of Molly's hand. “Our friend John here suggests that you are the person I need to speak to if I want to take a look at the coroner's report on the suicide of Sherlock Holmes. Would you be so kind?” 

“I...but, that's...I'm not sure what you're talking about.” Molly's eyes flit about nervously as she tries to pull her hand out of Annie's grasp.

“Come on now, Ms. Hooper.” Annie's grip tightens. “An autopsy is common practice in suicide cases, if only to rule out foul play.” She continues to keep a hold of Molly's hand as she looks at the other woman with an expression akin to hunger. “But there is no reason to suspect foul play in this case, is there, Molly?” Annie's voice is deliberately gentle and intimate. 

“N...no, of course not,” Molly stutters. The color drains from her face as her hand goes limp inside Annie's grasp, her palms growing clammy. Her eyes move fleetingly over to a file cabinet on the other side of the laboratory table. 

“Of course, not.” Annie finally lets go of her hand and steps back. “So you won't mind if I have a look at that report now.” She swiftly walks over to the cabinet and opens the second drawer, browsing through the alphabetically sorted files until she pulls out the one labeled 'Holmes, Sherlock'. “Ah, here it is.” 

“You can't do that.” Molly says in outrage, finally jolting into motion to go after Annie. 

Annie doesn't even bother to look up from the file. “Dr. Watson, can you explain?” she says absentmindedly, waving a hand in John's direction as she reads over the scant details in the report. 

John's mouth drops open as he stares at Annie. “There is no explanation for you.” Still, he steps between her and Molly all the same. “She showed up at the flat this morning, looking for Sherlock to ask for his help with a case.” 

Molly's face scrunches up in confusion. “What's that got to do with this?” She motions towards the strange woman who is completely absorbed in the very thin report on the suicide of Sherlock Holmes. 

“She didn't know.” He says meaningfully. “But once she figured it out, she got this bee in her bonnet about investigating the circumstances of his death.” 

“I can see that.” Molly's face grows even darker. “But why are you helping her?” 

“Because...” John stops abruptly, looking at Annie, who is still deeply engrossed in the few pages of the file, completely ignoring her surroundings. “Because it's what I do.” There is a flicker of pain on his face before he lowers his head. 

Molly flinches and looks away from John guiltily, pressing her lips together to bite back on anything she might have said. 

At that moment, Annie turns around and slaps the file closed. “While this little moment is extremely heartwarming, I'm afraid I have to interrupt.” She narrows her eyes specifically at Molly. “Were you present during the autopsy of Sherlock Holmes?” 

Molly looks extremely uncomfortable, avoiding Annie's gaze in favor of returning to her seat behind the microscope. “I don't see how that's any of your business.” She deliberately lowers her head to look through the eyepieces.

John sighs and turns his back on Annie to go after Molly. He braces his hands on the table between them and lowers his voice. “Molly, please.”

Molly refuses to lift her face from the lenses. “I have nothing to say to her, John.” 

When the drawer to the file cabinet slams shut behind him, John looks back up to find Annie standing by the closed cabinet, hands folded serenely in front of her. “It's quite alright, Dr. Watson. She doesn't have to tell me anything.” 

Annie steps up to the table beside John and reaches for the notepad and pen next to Molly on the table. “Though, if you could do me a favor and write down the name and number of the doctor who completed the report?” She taps the pen on the paper. 

“Oh, certainly.” Molly says sugary sweet before she hastily scribbles down a few words on the notepad and tears off the page, handing it to Annie with a facetious smile. “There you go. Have a nice day now.” 

Annie takes the piece of paper and reads the words 'Go right to hell, bitch' with a smile of her own. “I think I will.” She pockets the note on the inside of her coat and turns to John. “Dr. Watson, I got what I came for. I think it's time we get back to Baker Street.” 

John looks after Annie in confusion, then catches himself gaping like an idiot and shakes it off, following her out the door. “Later, Molly.” 

“See you later, John,” Molly says quickly, but her face is wrought with doubt and guilt as she watches the two of them leave. 

***

Back in the comforting surroundings of 221b Baker Street, Annie takes off her coat and removes two pieces of paper from the inside pocket, unfolding them and looking at them side by side. 

John watches her quietly, returning to his seat inside the cushy armchair and bracing his chin on one hand. “So, what have you deduced from our mad little trip to Bart's and the morgue?” 

Annie laughs. “Are you saying you haven't figured it out?” She shakes her head with an exaggerated disappointed moue, admonishing him with a quiet cluck of her tongue. “I had expected more from the great Dr. John Watson.” 

“Too bad. I still don't see what you're on about.” John snaps coldly. 

“Exactly!” She says with a grin. “You looked, but you didn't see.” She holds the two pieces of paper in front of his face. “Look at the writing, and then look at the signature on the coroner's report, what do you see?” 

John looks at the quickly scrawled insult and compares it to the signature of the doctor who had conducted the autopsy. “They're really similar,” he says quietly as a confused frown crosses his face. 

“More like, they're identical.” Annie snatches the papers away from him. “Now think of the circumstances of Mr. Holmes' demise. Quite peculiar wouldn't you say?” She starts to pace the length of the living room, rattling off the facts as if they were part of a shopping list. “The method he chose, the place he chose to do it. His very specific instructions in regards to your position when he did it. The impossibly quick response of the ambulance team.” 

John shakes his head in utter confusion. “I don't understand, what are you saying?” 

Annie whirls around and lunges towards John. “Three times, Dr. Watson. During a conversation that couldn't have lasted more than two minutes in its entirety he took the time to tell you three times exactly where to stand and once more for good measure where he wanted your attention to be.” She stops mere inches from John, bent over his chair and pointing at her own face. “On him and only him. Not the street, not your surroundings, he wanted all your attention focused solely on him.” She straightens back up with a laugh and gleefully claps her hands. “Oh, he even openly announced what he was doing, probably hoping that you would get it. Not that very moment, of course, but later, when you had time to think about it all.” She shakes her head. “He obviously underestimated the effect that genuine affection and grief can have on logical thinking.”

John is lost on the path she is trying to lead him down, but he's heard enough. He slams his fist down on the armrest as he jumps up from his chair. “Get to the bloody point!” 

Annie rolls her eyes and spreads her hands in supplication. “Don't you see? It was a trick. Just a magic trick! Exactly as he said. He's a fake. He faked his death and he counted on you to figure it out, even as he did his best to convince you otherwise.” She laughs and shakes her head, her face beaming with admiration. “Sherlock Holmes is very much alive!” 

“Impossible.” The color drains from John's face as he stares disbelievingly at the manic woman in front of him.

“No. Improbable, maybe, but no less true.” She grabs him by the hands and smiles in manic glee. “And so, so brilliantly, wonderfully, ingeniously, perfectly...inconvenient.” Her smile fades as she realizes the implications of her deductions. 

“You're insane.” John pulls his hands out of hers. “You have no right...” One hand moves to his chest to massage a sudden sore spot as he glares at the unscrupulous woman with wet eyes. 

“Oh, Dr. Watson, please. You have to believe me. Don't you see? All the clues are there!” 

“Oh really?” John's voice wavers dangerously on the verge of shouting. 

“Yes, really!” Annie nods happily, oblivious to his tone. 

“How did he do it then?” John challenges her. “How did he jump off the roof of a four story building and survive? How did he manage to make a bloody mess on the ground and manipulate me into believing he had no pulse? How?!” 

Annie's face falls. “I don't know.” She chews on her bottom lip and drops her chin. “The only way I can think would take somewhat of a miracle, and a cheap parlor trick to boot.” She shrugs dismissively, looking up at John with nothing but sincerity. “Like I said earlier, I'm only an ordinary girl, working with the tools of a genius.” 

“Get out of here.” John says coldly, “I've had enough of your antics.” He turns his face away, dismissing anything else she might try to say. 

Annie looks at him sadly. She takes a deep breath and picks up her coat. Once she has it straightened out and cinched up around her waist she hesitates, taking a long searching look at Dr. John Watson. 

John has gone back to sitting in his chair, staring morosely out the window. 

She purses her lips in determination and pulls a business card from her pocket. 

John deliberately turns his face towards the fireplace to eliminate any chance she might catch his eye. 

“This is my card.” She places the card on the side table. “I know, I'm right. You'll see.” She nods to herself with conviction. “He will come back.” 

John does his best to ignore her, rubbing at the sore spot on his chest as he stares at the empty fire place. 

Annie persists. “When he does, please ask him to call me. Or you can call me. Or send me an e-mail. I simply have to know how he did it.”  


***

Three years later, John has forgotten all about the strange American woman, Annie Peters, and moved on from Baker Street with a heavy heart and a patiently cultivated, well-groomed mustache on his face. 

That is why Dr. John Watson is doubly stunned when he takes a sip of water and glances up from the menu only to look straight into the face of his dead best friend, Sherlock Holmes, alive and well in front of him. Immediately after the word “Impossible” tumbles from his mouth, and mere moments before he faints dead on the spot, he finds himself inexplicably wondering what he did with that stupid business card. 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Of all the first stories to write for this fandom, I immediately shove in an OC. I'm sorry, but it wouldn't leave me alone as I was madly theorizing (along with millions of others I'm sure) about just HOW Sherlock could have pulled off this incredible stunt.


End file.
